“I did,” said Sybil, indifferently.
“Have you seen him, then?” demanded her father.
“Oh, yes; but my uncle is unreliable. Before he obeyed my command to leave this country forever he decided on a final coup, which has fortunately failed.”
“Burthon,” announced Chesty Todd, “boarded an east-bound train an hour ago. I tried to head him off, but he was too slick and escaped me. That is the reason I am now here. I want you to listen to Totham Tyler’s story and then decide whether to wire ahead and have Burthon arrested or let the matter drop. It is really up to you, as the interested parties. So far the police have not had a hand in the game.”
“Please sit down, Mr. Todd,” requested Orissa, shyly. In the tall youth she had recognized the man who had tried to warn her on Dominguez Field, and was grateful to him.
Chesty bowed and sat down. Then he turned to his prisoner and said:
“Fire away, Tyler. Tell the whole story—the truth and nothing but the truth so help you.”
Tyler opened his mouth with effort, mumbled and gurgled a moment and then looked at his captor appealingly.
“Oh; very well. The criminal, ladies and gentlemen, seems to have lost, in this crisis, the power of expressing himself. So I shall relate to you the story, just as I extracted it—by slow and difficult processes—from the prisoner in my room, a short time ago. If I make any mistakes he will correct me.”
Tyler seemed much relieved.